


KINGDOM COME | DICK GRAYSON FAN-FIC (TITANS TV SERIES)

by anidri_lux



Series: ᴅᴄ [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Titans (Comics), Titans (DC)
Genre: Action, Adventure, F/M, Fan-fiction, Romance, Sci-Fi, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anidri_lux/pseuds/anidri_lux
Summary: HEADLINE → WHERE ON EARTH IS ROBIN AND HIS DURABLE PARTNER, PATRA?She skipped to Manhattan, living a civilised life with a fiancé that she finds peculiar of his motives to have her around. Maybe he has trust issues to love her or there's a bigger picture than what the tabloids can depict on their relationship for people's morning papers - until she gets to reunite with a singing bird in the night under circumstances she never expected.





	1. CAST

**CAST**

**MADISON DAVENPORT**  
as  
_Frances Breyman_ | _Patra_

**SAM CLAFLIN**  
as  
_Orlando Wyrick_

**BRENTON THWAITES**  
as  
_Robin_ | _Nightwing_ | _Dick Grayson_

* * *

* * *


	2. SEASON 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   


[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699093/chapters/49168541#workskin)

[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699093/chapters/49168637#workskin)

[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699093/chapters/49351421)

[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699093/chapters/51987562)


	3. 0

* * *

She places her knee against the ground, head bowed down for preparation of what can be interpreted as her ultimate _death_. No tears decide to shed — no, not tonight, and she clenches her fists to push them against the gravel in order to prepare for the straight cut that goes from the back of her neck to the front, and she's not scared to face death (although he has been placed on checkmate far too many times).

"_Pulling out of the heroic act?_" Asks the girl in a foreign language, specifically _Swedish_. "_Do it, wise one, I've failed to do what anyone would want to do these sort of days_,"

"_And what is that?_' The man, drawing a sword from his sheath, asks without interest while placing the sharpest edge of the sword against the nape of her neck. "_Should I cut as many vessels I can, slowly and agonisingly, or should I just aim it for the head? I mean, I _am_ aiming for the head, but it seems satisfying to watch someone bleed to their death. Slowly. A merciful act of mine that I tend to do to my victims — or shall I say the act of removing the sins of this world?_"

"_Rather biblical of you to say that. What makes you think I've sinned in my life?_" She asks, seeing a reflection of a figure from above through a puddle. She subtly smirks. "_Yes, I've killed people for others' protection, but _you_ have managed to piss off not only me but some other people that I know of,_"

The man laughs, pulling off the sword and twirls it in his hand while he paces counter-clockwise to face the girl, adding pressure on the top of her head with his sword. "_You're alone, little one. People may know you as the sidekick of Robin, but to me, you're just a tiny bug that's easily hurt by just the step of a boot_," He creates a graze on the top of her head, and she winces in pain. The man watches as the wound bleeds and begins to blend in with her hair. "_It's a pity that you should die. Do you like to die? I've heard on the streets that you've died many times and resurrected beyond my friends' eyes. Then, you make sure that their eyes are scooped off. _Clean_. What are your final words, young one?_"

"Sometimes," She smiles, amidst the radiating ache above her head. "I'm not afraid to look up at my enemy's eyes," With a grin and a wink at the confused yet angered man's expression, a figure takes a drop on him, creating a splat and a crack of his spine against the ground. "Perfect timing!" She cries to his durable duo, _Robin_, while laying some punches and roundhouse kicks at their number one enemies (at this moment). Robin bends and she rolls over the back to grab her dagger from the leg sheath and make a deep cut into the stomach of the enemy's goon.

"You know I like my moments," Robin replies, twirling around her and breaking two of the goons' legs and throws a smoke bomb to the ground, blinding their enemies while she and Robin keep their guards up, disarming the men by breaking their arms and wrists, and throwing them off the roof (_only_ if necessary). From her hands, a green glow gives light to the men, and they, without their firearm, grab out their secondary weapons and target for the green glow, but the green glows turn into their weapon. "Love it when they get scared of your oh-lovely surprise," Robin smirks.

She smirks and creates a lasso, twirling the hoop in the air and hooking it around a goon's neck and pulling him with her knee prepared for the impact of a broken back. After a lasso, the glow turns into a pair of batons which she plays with her instruments like a drum against two to four men at once, while Robin takes down the weaker ones. Finally, she transforms her glow into a makeshift gun, pointing at the last goon's forehead with a sinister smile. "_Any last words before I send your boss a message?_"

The goon hastily pulls off his mask, revealing himself to be a seventeen-year-old boy who had been dragged into this against his will. Her lips twitched, the green gun disappears from her hand. "_Where is your father?_" The boy shakily points at a dead man. She shuts her eyes, cupping her mouth. "Shit, shit... _fuck_," She paces in a circle, hands cupped behind her head as she leans it behind in great regret. "I've acted across the line,"

"Why? What's going on?" Robin asks, curious.

"_T-Thank you_," The boy stutters.

She turns around, confused. "_Why are you thanking me when you've had to witness your father's blood pour onto my hands?_"

"I've always hated him," The boy speaks fluent English, nodding. "He scammed people — _good_ people. He stole money and instead of using it for good use, he used it for booze and meaningless sex with strippers and hookers when he has a loving wife that takes the hits because of _me_," The boy says, his eyes welling up. "And now... he's finally _dead_,"

"I'll... take the boy back home," She says to Robin. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous point," She watches Robin nod, and he flings himself away using his own engineered grappling hook.

After an hour of watching the boy consoling her mother crying and such, and having to change herself into civilian clothes, she dumps the duffle bag into the back of her car, before locking it and walking into the usual bar that Robin, or as she knows him as _Dick Grayson_, would meet up after major fights. She looks around for a usual set of hair that makes her like him even more, but she didn't see it anywhere. She takes a seat at the usual sight.

"Same old, sweetheart?" Asks the bartender.

"Same old,"

The bartender places a block of circular ice into a glass and pours liquor into it before passing it to her, along with an envelope that has a notable handwriting '_Frances Breyman_'. "He left this for you — 'bout half an hour ago,"

"Thanks..." Frances nods, pulling apart the envelope and revealing a one-page letter written by Dick.

━━━━━━

_Dear, Fran,_

_I can't tell you how much I admire your strength and durability during fights. You've always had me at awe whenever we fight with or without Batman, and I'm a lucky man to have fought right beside you when I could, but this time, I have to step down from the podium as the presentation of my life dwindles into bloody ledgers. Robin is now dead. I'm moving out of the city but not because of us, don't think that way. I love you too much for it to be your fault, but the responsibility of being Batman's Robin is getting out of hand, and I don't want you to see who I am really._

_I've become the worst person even I could see, and I'm glad you didn't see it yet. I trust that you'll help Batman cope without his Robin for the next few years, and last night was incredible — I know you have self-esteem issues, but trust me, you were amazing and beautiful as the woman I had always seen. With or without the eyepatch, you've seen the good in me, but I'm scared that soon enough, you'll see the opposite and you'll be scared to be with me. Just wait for me to not be Robin, and we can establish a relationship from there._

_Much love,  
Dick._

━━━━━━_  
_

Her heart's beat picks up its pace as she pulls out her phone from her pocket and locates Dick's contact on her device. She places the device against her ear, a tear roll down from her good eye as she bites against her finger. It rings and rings until the dispatch says '_Sorry, the number you have dialled is no longer available_,'. Frances's anger couldn't contain itself in her, so she breaks the glass of liquor with one strong, enhanced and subtly glowing grip, and she didn't realise that her hand is beginning to bleed with the shards penetrating her skin. 


	4. 1

* * *

A break of applause erupts throughout the whole ballroom as the spotlight grants a wish towards the family standing proudly on the stage. Cameramen crowd the area specifically for photos to be taken and flashes blind people close to them. The family standing on the stage smiles without ruining with a sweat. The family claps along with the audience as the mistress of the ceremony announce the eight-figure cheque, legally coming from the _Wyright Corporation_, towards the person who will be receiving the cheque for the charity towards the LGBTQ+ community that will be used for resources to the homeless teenagers.

The head of the corporation is the man himself, still doing well, regardless being time as old can tell, Mathias Wyrick, taking the microphone gently from the mistress of ceremony. He gestures gratitude with his fingers as he looks around, squinting his eyes to suffer through the bright lights in his eyes. He begins to speak how honoured he is to have gathered a hefty amount of civil organisations that are out there to help the ones in need, and that he is an open book when it comes to those that are _terribly_ suffering — reminding or giving notice to every one of his yet recent charitable work of donating money to the hospitals in Manhattan.

Once more, people break into applause.

As the mistress of the ceremony has her microphone returned, the Wyright family smiles at the cameras with the people they've given their money to for charity, and they disperse in sync with the cello orchestra playing on the corner of the stage.

Dinner has passed, and people begin to stand from their seats to mingle about and congratulate the family when they can. The youngest in the Wyright family, _Orlando Wyright_, searches for a femme he's focused for in his life, and as he wanders around, he spots her at the bar, seated elegantly with her back straight and her shoulder-length hair curled to perfection, sipping a neat scotch. He slides his hand to her lower back and plants a kiss against her cheek.

"How was I?" He asks, taking a seat next to her.

She stops sipping with her one finger to gesture for a moment to sink in the liquid. "You were fine, my beau," She cups his cheek and Orlando smiles against the touch, burying his cheek into her hand and kisses the skin. "You told me you have a surprise for me, so what is it?" She claps her hands excitedly. "Are we going to get married here or something? Or are you... _breaking_ up with me?" The terror flashes between her eyes and she break a frightened frown.

"No, no!" Orlando cups his lover's hands and kisses them, smiling. "It's the best surprise for a fiancé like me to give to a fiancée like you," He plants a lingering kiss against her knuckles, and then against her lips. "For now, my love, you need to present yourself as the love of my life in front of my family's business partners, let them know that we're _deeply_ in love and that we'd spend the rest of our life with twins or triplets or even quadruplets!"

His lover chuckles, blushing a little. "I can only pop out one or two humans, and _that's_ my quota, alright, machine gun?" Orlando helps her off the stool and fixes her dress and hair. "So, am I presentable yet?" Orlando hums, reaching for the eyepatch on her eye but with quick reflexes, she stops his wrist. She sighs. "I know you want people to know how I look, but please, not right now, alright? What if... I'll get a massive headache? — a migraine, at best?"

"You won't; trust me," Orlando smiles, having the urge to pull off the eyepatch and just show the world the beauty he, too, has been hidden from, but he sighs and restrains himself. "But it's alright. I respect your want to not get sick, and I'd very much want my fiancée to be well and fine for the upcoming trip,"

"Are you just teasing me, beau?" The lady smiles, poking his dimple as he chuckles with his eyes shut. "Alright, let's get me to know your parents' partners," She links her arm with Orlando's as they begin to walk around the room, earning a few glares with the eyepatch on, but it never disturbed her — she was and always has been used to the feeling of being stared for the peculiarity. They stop at a man who looks around Orlando's age, who stands with a woman at his mother's.

"Orlando!" Cries the man, hugging Orlando as if they were blood brothers when Orlando returned the embrace, and they pat each other's backs. "It's good to see you in New York, man, and thanks so much for inviting me and my mum to this awesome party," The man winces in pain when his mother pinches his arm for not introducing her, and she subtly brushes it off with a smile. "R-Right... Orlando, this is my... _er_..."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, if we were going to put up with this act, you might as well grab your balls and say it out loud," The woman speaks with a heavy accent of the French. "I am his girlfriend, or might I say, _fiancée_," She shows a ring on her ring finger at the respected hand. The glare from the lights reflects upon the gem as she seems rather satisfied at her life's choices. "He proposed to me only a week ago and it was _very_ charming,"

Orlando smiles. "Well, congratulations, Gerald, you've managed to cross off one of the things on your bucket list," He winks, chuckling and wraps an arm around his lady's waist. "You might want to settle down with the ring, miss, as my dear _fiancée_, too, is engaged. To me. Gerald, I'd like you to meet Frances Breyman. Frances, Gerald Archibald," They shake hands with a smile, but the mistress of Gerald gives a snarling glare at Frances as she notices the ring on her finger; the gem making an obvious reflection of a finer cut than her's. "We're planning to get married in Paris, the place she was born, and I'll make sure to invite Mr and Mrs Archibald to the wedding, of course,"

"He can hardly dream of a Mrs Archibald with parents who look down at me with utter shame," The mistress hisses, fixing her hair through the reflection of a compact mirror. "And what is it with your eyepatch? Are you blind? or is that for attention, you attention-whore?" The mistress throws her hands onto Frances's face and attempts to pull off the eyepatch, but Frances pushes the mistress off and quickly fixes the eyepatch when the atmosphere blurs in her vision.

"My apologies, Orlando!" Gerald cries and brings his mistress out for a heated conversation.

Orlando dismisses the gathered attention from the people around them, and Orlando pulls Frances to the side, his hands on her shoulders. "Are you alright, my love?"

"Y-Yes," Frances nods, shutting her eyes so that the buzz of the world wouldn't disturb her more. She knows she can handle alcohol well, but when it comes to the eye, she wouldn't want to mess with it in any other way. She sighs, finally opening her eyes to see a relieved Orlando when she flashes a smile. "I'm fine now. Don't worry about me, beau, I'm just sensitive in the eye as it is, that's one of the reasons why my parents convinced me to wear this for the rest of my life or until I go totally blind on this eye,"

"_Speaking_ of your parents," Orlando leans onto that while Frances frowns.

"I'm not ready yet..."

"But you've seen _my_ parents, why can't I meet yours?" Orlando intertwines his fingers with Frances's as he ushers her out of the ballroom so they can have a private conversation without the many bees working their chattery inside.

"Need I remind you that the circumstances of your parents meeting me was unconventional," Frances snorts at the memory, how Orlando begins to blush. "Oh, come on, it wasn't _that_ embarrassing. You were into it, I was into it, it's a two-party consent. Besides, it's not like the book club we joined didn't know what _we_ were doing that night," She grabs a flute of champagne from a waiter and winks, sipping the bubbly liquid.

Orlando sighs. "Don't remind me about how we read _Fifty Shades of Grey_ out loud... It's... _embarrassing_ when you say it, b-but don't think that I'm embarrassed by you — no! It's just... well, it's just embarrassing, okay?" He huffs, crossing his arms while Frances chuckles, setting down the flute glass on cupped hands of a statue. "Alright, since you're so persistent about wanting to know where I'm taking you—"

"I didn't say anything," Frances admits, throwing surrendering hands.

"—I just want you to know that it may not be lavish as our trips before, but you have to love me for this, okay?" Orlando smiles, hopeful that Frances will be on the same levelled thought as he is. Frances nods, smiling a little. "We are going to..." He drums the railing of the mezzanine. "Detroit! My sister will be out of town, my parents will be in Canada for a conference, and I'll have you for the rest of the week," He smiles, eyelids lowering as he plants a lingering kiss against Frances's lips. "Plus, the rest of my family resides in Detroit, so I just want you to meet the rest of my family that's yet to be dug,"

Frances giggles, stroking Orlando's cheek with passion. "It'll be a lovely trip. Should I begin to pack?"

Orlando checks his wristwatch. "Yes, because our flight leaves in three hours, and I'll send a car to pick you up at your place?" Orlando asks; Frances nods. "Alright, I'll see you later, my love. I have to tell my family that we're leaving," Orlando kisses goodbye to her and wanders into the ballroom, while Frances smiles.

Then it fades.

She pulls out her phone from her purse and sees that there's a message from an unknown number: "_Downstairs, white Honda civic_".

Frances, without the need to rush, declines the stairs and receives her coat from the bellboy and she thanks him. She shrugs on her coat and searches for the informed car model, and she finds it and pulls open the door, elegantly gliding herself onto the seat beside a woman of Latina background. "Well?" She asks.

"I've earned his trust completely," Frances says as she begins to pull off her earrings and put them in her purse. "He wants to bring me to Detroit in the next three hours,"

"Good. Detroit is the heart of his trafficking ring. Make sure you pack what you need. I'll send a message to the Detroit Police Department about your undercover position in any case that this all will go wrong," Frances's captain says and nods to the driver, who nods back and begins to drive out of the parking spot. "Anything else that he had mentioned?"

"Nothing, but I guarantee that we can break down his trafficking chain with the evidence I will find once he shows me," Frances nods, turning to the window. "I know we will,"


	5. 2

* * *

Orlando can't refrain himself from granting a smile at the sight of his sleeping fiancée, who has a sleeping mask on and is curled into a ball, hugging his free arm while the other is in the use of supporting his hand that's holding a philanthropic book. As the flight continues from the journey of Manhattan to Detroit, it seemed a little necessary for Orlando — he needed time away from his family and friends, from the grand lavish, life. For the next week, it's only about Orlando and Frances, and no one else.

At some point, Orlando shakes Frances lightly.

"Love?"

Frances murmurs something incoherent to his ears as she flails his hand away from her shoulder and continues the slumber. He chuckles. "It's time for us to leave the flight. We've arrived in Detroit," He kisses the crown of her head.

Frances stirs from the words and pulls off the mask to flash her good eye, then looking out through the window to know if they've really touched down. She can see a road for aeroplanes and the people guiding the aeroplane had done their deeds. Frances yawns and nods. "Alright. The first thing I need to do once I'm off the plane is to use the loo," She pushes herself up from the seat and notices that everybody is claiming their items for the compartment above them. "I hope the trip didn't ruin my matcha cake,"

"I still wonder why you had to bring it in the first place," Orlando chuckles, upping from his seat second and reaches for their bags that they brought onto the plane. "Sure, you love green tea as much as I do, but was it necessary to have brought it onto the plane?"

"It's the best goddamn cake Manhattan can offer me, and besides, you were willing to pay it on the occasion of _our_ special trip, a.k.a hiding from your family," Frances carries her messenger bag like any normal human beings (shrugging on the strap of her bag and ensuring that her items are still in there) and finally, Orlando brings out the cake in its box, believing to be untouched by how secure it is tucked in the corner. "Oh, I'm going to _ravish_ you, cake — just wait for me when we get to the hotel,"

Orlando snorts, raising an eyebrow while shuffling down the lane. "Hotel? Love, I have a penthouse in Detroit, so we don't want to busy ourselves with bellboys or room service. I have a personal chef and maid to do our chores, so if you have any dirty laundry for the next week, you can expect it to be in the closet every day, squeaky clean and smelling like me,"

Frances holds onto Orlando's pinkie as they descend the steps of the plane and into the hallway that connects them from the plane to the airport itself. "You just had to have an apartment in every goddamn state, don't you?"

"Technically, Detroit is a city, love," Orlando winks.

"_You know what I mean_," She huffs and looks away. It grows quiet between them as they continue their journey out to the conveyor belt where their bags are supposed to be, and Orlando reaches for Frances's black luggage with a duffle bag stacked on top and in front of the handle so that when she pulls the bag, it wouldn't fall. Orlando stacks up against his items and pulls along with intertwining his fingers with Frances's as they make way to the landing lobby. "We're taking an Uber to your penthouse, right?"

"Why Uber when you have drivers at almost state?" Orlando smiles, looking around for a man who'll be holding a sign that says his name, and once he spots his driver, he points at him and they both hurry to the man. "Frances, I'd like you to meet Jason. Jason, this is my lovely fiancée, Frances Breyman,"

"Like as he had explained to me, you burn bright like a sun yet glisten under the charms of the moon," Jason smiles and shakes Frances's hand. "Finally, it's lovely to meet you in the flesh — Orlando has been treating me with many compliments of this so-called Frances. Now, however, we shouldn't dilly-dally with conversations yet as we are on a clock to the penthouse and your next destination."

Frances raises an eyebrow. "My next destination?"

"_Our_," Orlando corrects.

"I thought we'd be at the penthouse, relaxing and... y'know... explore the minds together, if you catch my drift — sorry, Jason, for the figurative language," Frances smiles apologetically at Jason as he flails his hand dismissively, bringing their bags to their assigned car.

"I know... but I think we're still hyped up on the adrenaline of tonight, and I thought, why _not_ rent a whole cinema to ourselves and watch your favourite movie?" Orlando smiles, watching Frances gasp in surprise and excitement. "Yes! You finally caught me! We're going to see _Avengers_ with an HD screen and a full surround system; isn't that amazing?"

Frances pouts, cupping his face and bringing him in for many pecks. "You, sir, always find your way to amaze me, and that is hard work for the men I've dated before," She smiles, entering the backseat passenger and Orlando slides in next. "Before you say anything, _yes_, you've topped everyone on my dating list, even though I've only dated one or two."

"So, hypothetically speaking of that _two_," Orlando pulls down the armrest between them and rests his elbow on it, looking at Frances with glittering eyes of curiosity. "What happened to that guy? Did he cheat on this lovely heart of yours?" Orlando frowns, running a few strokes of Frances's brown hair. "Some men are idiotic for allowing them to fool themselves with their egos. Why waste their time with money on strippers and booze when they are guaranteed of a woman who've waited for their lives to have a chance of starting their first or second steps in the relationship life?"

Frances laughs. "You must've forgotten about the circumstances of how _we_ met, beau," She ruffles his hair before buckling into her seat and leans her elbow against the armrest and her chin on her fist. Their eyes stare at each other, radiating likeness off of one another. "You were pushing in a couple of hundreds into a stripper's lingerie before you even set eyes on me across the room. So, what made you change your mind from being world's known playboy and millionaire to a humble and loving man?"

"You," Orlando admits. "_You've_ changed me from who I was to who I am. I'm the luckiest man to have ever met you, and I wouldn't want anything to change that between us. If you ever changed your mind about marrying me, then don't worry, we can still be together and you can do the most unorthodox thing in a proposal of history could be done,"

"And that is?"

"You asking me to marry," Orlando smiles. "I tend to wonder what it feels like to be the one on the other side when the question pops. What did _you_ feel when I got onto my knees in front of our friends and my family?"

"Adrenaline-rushed, palms sweaty, the usual mix of being a clumsy mess," Frances says, smiling. "Alright. I'm up to this deal. Any time, any place, right?"

"Right," Orlando smiles. "But of course, that is _if_ you're not wanting to marry me sooner, then later can be dealt with,"

"Pretty sure I've been falling for the most understandable, cutest and handsome guy I've ever met," Frances sighs satisfaction, placing a hand against her chest and chuckles. "I _so_ can't wait to watch _Avengers_ in a surround-system theatre. What about popcorns and drinks? Don't their stalls close a few hours ago?"

"I'm sure you're not surprised at how money can deal with things," Orlando clicks his tongue with a wink, looking out of the window. "Oh, it looks like we're here!" He points at the tower as the car pulls to a stop by the pavement. "You're going to be _amazed_ at the architecture of the building — my father's friend designed the building and had designated a room all to me when I was young; he knew, at some point, I was going to stop being a bachelor so he designed multiple rooms for my future kids and that, one day, will happen to us," Orlando grabs Frances's hand and kisses it before planting a kiss against her lips. "C'mon, I can't wait to show you the room,"

Their things are sent up along with the hosts of the items of baggage, and as they arrive, the doors open and Frances's is introduced to a modernesque bachelor-like pad, but suitable for starting a family. The spiral stairs lead up to where the master bedroom is, and the automatic curtains (as explained by Orlando), will open and shut at accorded timings. "This is... _beautiful_, beau," Frances has seen many lavish buildings before, but this can come second to the first, the _Wayne Manor_ (oh, how she misses the Wayne Manor). "We should _definitely_ visit Detroit. No, we _have_ to move into this penthouse for the rest of our lives,"

Orlando chuckles, assisting the bellboys with their items of baggage to the room. Frances runs up the stairs and collides into the memory foam of a mattress and can feel every inch of her bones sink into the material; relaxed. "I'm glad you love the place, love, but we have a movie to catch, remember?" He gestures to his watch.

"I have the _perfect_ attire for this," Frances rummages through her luggage, tipping the bellboys as they leave. She pulls out her undergarments and such until she reaches for the clothing she's been admiring for Orlando to be dressed in. She quickly, yet struggles, to get out of her clothes and zip into the article of clothing. "C'mon, we don't want to miss the _Avengers_!"

As they walk out of the theatre, arms linked, Orlando sighs and fixes his hood. "I can't believe you made me leave the house in a _Pooh_ onesie," He struggles to have air in with the gesture of fanning himself, despite the night air being chilly. "I look awfully ridiculous in this! Once we get home, I am burning this to ashes,"

"Aw, _honey_," Frances giggles. "Spending my night with you in these onesies while getting comfortable in a couple bed was the best and romantic thing a man could ever give me. So see this onesie as an achievement of my love," She giggles, sipping her drink. "Uh-oh, I'm all out of drinks,"

"Good. Too much sugar in you and you'll be hyperactive as abnormal as ever," Orlando chuckles. "Speaking of abnormal... I want to show you something," Orlando stops between two buildings, pulling a random bag from the alley. "I... I just need you to put this on so that I can trust you to not expose me,"

"What's going on?" _Don't be real, fake it_, somewhere in Frances's mind speaks. She looks to the left, noticing a car with two men guarding it. "A-Am I in trouble? Are you a cop?" _Yes, yes, you're becoming a good actress at this_. "I swear, it was just a few hits and that's it!"

Orlando frowns and cups Frances's cheeks once he notices the tears. "No, love, it's for your own good that you put this on, _please_," He gestures for the bag. "I just want to show you my work. My _real_ work."

"Y-You don't trust me to see where it is?" She frowns.

"I..." Orlando, stuck, sighs. "Please, it's for your own safety," Orlando gradually drags Frances into the alley, where the men are prepared to tackle her to the back of the car. "I'm sorry, my love, but this is the only way for you to see my artwork," Orlando shoves the bag down her head, and Frances shrieks in bona fide fear. The thugs wrap their arms around her's and struggle to drag her.

Until a smoke bomb drops to the ground and it blinds not only the guards but Orlando too. The guards release the grip of Frances's arms as they attempt to cover their faces. Frances pulls herself against the dirty floor and her back against the wall, and she removes the bag only to be partially impaired in vision. A figure drops to the ground, pulling out a baton-like weapon from his utility belt and lengthen it to make hits against the guards and knock them out. The mysterious man attacks Orlando next with the baton and then shifting the weapon back to its place in the utility belt while grabbing Orlando's neck and smashing his head onto a corner of a railing.

"Hey, hey, stop that!" Frances cries to whoever that is. "**I SAID STOP IT!**" Her hand glows and the same glow wraps itself around the hidden figure and she, with the telekinetic strength, pulls him off. The smoke begins to clear and Frances crawls to Orlando, who's in the state of unconscious. "Oh my God... Orlando!"

Frances's eyes rage in green and she looks behind at the figure, seeing that he's recovered from the fall. He stands by her vision, clear as day and bright like the moon.

It's _him_.


	6. 𝟹

* * *

She couldn’t care less about Orlando being detained under appropriate authorities, but somewhere inside of her, she felt sorry for him. Though it’s always like that when criminals are — when you’re with them for too long, you’ll get hooked onto their thoughts and personalities too easily, and that’s what happened to Frances. 

She shakes her head, wanting the thought of sympathy to be out of her head, and she bangs her head onto the metal table where the clangs echo throughout the room. Frances sighs, looking at her handcuffed hands that are attached to the table — she feels… _hungry_. All this thinking and the fact that she’s been detained temporarily made her hunger go haywire, and she looks at the mirror in front. The two-way mirror she’s too accustomed to when it comes to interrogating bad guys. Usually, it’s either her behind the glass or in front, vice versa (depending on the case). 

It only takes Frances a couple of seconds to realise how a mess she looks like. Her hair isn’t a mess, but after some rough rebellion against Orlando’s actions, her hair turned out messy; her skin is covered in dirty water and mud that she accidentally accumulate when she was on the ground in the alley. She sighs — though, she’s seen herself worse than her current status. 

The door’s knob pushes down and she looks at the waving object, expecting for the man himself that he knows too well, but alas, it’s someone she’s disappointed by. A detective that looks like around her age, and she’s blonde. She takes a seat in front of Frances with a notepad and a pen out; she clears her throat, smiling at an unamused Frances. “My name is Detective Amy Rohrbach, I’m in charge of your case,”

“Are you now?” Frances scoffs. “Did you just interrogate the man before me? Orlando Wyrick?”

“Yes. He claims that he doesn’t know who you are and that you were trying to drug him. Same goes for the ‘goons’ that were existing at the time of the crime,” Detective Amy presses her pen and scribbles on the notepad. “State your name and your business in Detroit; let’s make it easy, okay?” She smiles, condescendingly, as if she made herself believe that Frances is a criminal to begin with. “Mr Wyrick claims that you’re _Frances Breyman_?” 

Frances’s teeth grits. “Is this your first time interrogating, Detective?” She asks.

“No — please answer my question,”

“How many times have you tried to interrogate criminals that have murdered and raped innocent people in _that_ order?” Frances refrains a smirk as she sees Detective Amy turn into stone. “How many times have you had to watch a child cry because they watched their parents die in front of them — when they just came back from the movies, and they were mugged, then their parents were shot in cold blood?”

Detective Amy stutters.

“My name is _Detective_ Frances Breyman,” Frances says, leaning closer to Detective Amy. “I am an undercover cop that is on the case of an Orlando Wyrick, connected to the human trafficking linked around New York, Manhattan, Texas, and many more, and now they’re trying to finish off their link in Detroit so please,” She gestures to her handcuffs. “If you believe me and check my credentials on the system _and_ contact my captain, you’ll know that I have a clean slate that’s not going to be dirtied for some bastard who _will_ be walking freely because of my cowardly act,”

Detective Amy exhales. “Where did you say you were from again?”

“I _didn’t_ — don’t pull that bullshit on me right now,” Frances, annoyed, growls. “Manhattan. Ask my captain and she will not bullshit you about me,” 

Amy nods and stands, going to the door.

“Oh, and also, I need something from you,” Frances says.

“And what is that?” Amy doesn’t look back; she’s holding the handle of the door.

“Bring me Detective Grayson,”

“Detective Grayson is unavailable,” _Lies_, thinks Frances as Amy replies. _He’s on the other side of the mirror. Looking at me._ “If you’d like, I can bring you another detective that wouldn’t half-ass you.”

Frances clicks her tongue, popping it on her cheek as she grins at the mirror. She rocks an eyebrow, ‘_Hello, Grayson_’. “No need. I’ll stay alone until you can confirm my credentials with my captain,” Frances says, not looking at Detective Amy as she leaves the room. A minute or two passes by yet Frances didn’t move an inch until the door swings open and the presence of a curious man enters her range. “_Rise and rise again until lambs become lions_. Do you know where that came from?”

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

She maintains eye contact on herself; her peripheral vision consumed by the presence of a tall man — a _taller_ man at that. “That’s from Robin Hood — you just don’t quit, do you, _Grayson_?” She looks at Dick, who scrunches his eyebrows with a fatigued look. “Are you awaiting for the moment to outrun your past yet maintain the facade of a man who ran away from his mentor? You’re still a lamb, nor will you ever become a lion.”

“_What are you doing here_?” Dick growls as he takes a seat in front of Frances, blocking her view of herself and now she’s fixed her eyes on his. “You ran away first — don’t make it as _my_ fault for ditching _him_.”

Frances laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Dick asks.

“_He_ doesn’t care about me because you know why? I wasn’t his first choice. _You’re_ his first choice,” Frances leans front, whispering to him. “Bruce chose me because he knew that the more you’re under _his_ wing, the more you’ll be insane. You needed to be grounded from what you’ll become and so, he chose me. He knew that the moment he saw me climbing onto tall buildings and leaping, and flying, and doing my magic tricks. But there’s a difference between you and me, Grayson,” Frances chuckles. “My parents are still alive,”

“Fuck you, Breyman” Dick exclaims, kicking himself off the chair and runs his fingers through his hair. “_What_ are you doing here, Frances? In Detroit, specifically.”

“Until you pull this handcuff off, I will explain but for now,” Frances makes herself comfortable in her seat, staring into the oblivion with the vision of Dick’s shirt in front of her. “I want my grandmother,”

“She’s dead,”

Frances looks at Dick, somewhat surprised. However, she swallows the words she heard. “Well, of course, she is. Did you attend her funeral?”

“_We_ did. Before I left Gotham,” Dick, relaxed and calmed, sits down. “Detroit. Why?”

“Undercover cop. Wyrick Enterprises,” Frances taps her forefinger, a sharp nail it is, onto the surface of the metal table. “Human trafficking ring — traces are around America now, and the last to close the link is Detroit. The man you beat up in the alley is my fiancé, but he hasn’t caught up about me being a cop,” Frances shrugs. “So, it’s your turn. Detroit. Why?”

Dick, comprehending everything that Frances had just said, shakes his head and sighs. “The nearest place to let go of what I did before, like you. You head off to Manhattan, isn’t it? How’s Manhattan? I can predict that it’s better than Gotham,”

“You may have left Gotham, Dick, but it seems like what I witnessed last night,” Frances squints her eyes. “Gotham never left you,”

Dick scoffs. “I can say the same to you,”

“Gotham’s never left me. I can never run away from it because you know why?” Frances asks; Dick raises an eyebrow. “Because Gotham’s in our blood, Dick. We were born and raised in Gotham, and what happened to us, why Bruce took us in, not only did he raised us like we’re his children, but we raised with Gotham. We know the starts and ends of the city,”

“What’s your point?” Dick asks.

“You can never escape the asylum,”


	7. 𝟺

* * *

Frances’s head lays idle on the cold table, wrists still cuffed for whatever reason that she’s being detained. Surely the police department had called her captain and checked her background, but something in her guts tells that even that doesn’t cover up a bigger problem this police department in Detroit is facing. 

She sits up, hair all unkempt, and looks at the two-way mirror. She knows no one is looking at her because there’s no one on the other side. She scoffs, noticing her state of hair and she tries to fix it. 

The door swings open and in her peripheral vision, she sees Detective Amy with a small item in hand. Her appearance appears sour and lost. “We’ve checked with your captain at Manhattan PD,” She says with gritted teeth. “You’re good to go, _dick_-tective,” 

“Not the first time someone says that to me, don’t flatter yourself,” Frances chuckles, gesturing her cuffed hands. Amy grumbles below earshot and harshly unlocks the cuffs. “So, what’s happening with Orlando? Is he still under custody?”

Detective Amy shakes her head. “He got a damn good lawyer, so he’s a free-man walking,”

Frances clicks her tongue, scoffing. “Surprised? Nope. That man can rule the world with a single finger and still get away with it,” She says. “Where can I get my items that you confiscated?” She asks. Amy brings Frances to her desk, handing a bag of items like her phone and her purse. She smiles. “Thank you, detective,”

As Frances ensures that everything is in her purse, she bumps into a muscular body. Both figures dropped their belongings, and they quickly get onto their knees to scramble for their items. Once standing, they analyse each other’s physique and quickly jump to the conclusion. Before Frances can cry his name in surprise…

“Frances!” He cries, hugging her in the air and squeezing her lungs. “It’s so good to see you, Snow!” 

Frances lets out a squeak of laughter. “P-Put me down, I can’t… breathe,”

The man scrambles to put her down and ruffles her hair, smiling. “So, what brings you to the Detroit Police Department?”

“The Wyrick family,” Frances shrugs, slipping a hand into her pocket and looks at the television, where it’s broadcasting news for the night. “Captain put me up for undercover for nearly a year, I think, to make Orlando think I’m in love with him and seduce him to get married to me. _But_ the whole idea was ruined and Orlando knows I’m an undercover cop now,”

“How come?” The man asks, crossing his arms. 

“_Robin_,” She groans, shaking her head. “Anyway, how’s life in Detroit handling you, Logan?” 

Logan smiles. “It’s hella awesome, I might say. I have an idea!” — ‘_You’re always having an idea, Logan_,’ thinks Frances with a smile — “Why don’t I talk to my captain and ask for your transfer to here? It’d be a nice change in the environment with your pretty personality here. Hang on, I’ll go right now!” 

“Logan-!” Frances cries, but to her failed attempt, Logan has disappeared into thin air and she chuckles, nonetheless. She goes up to a television, seeing a broadcast of Robin in action in the middle of an alley with multiple bad guys. “Remember what I said?” She asks Dick, who’s in earshot of her. She can tell he doesn’t appreciate her being around him. “Gotham’s never left you, Dick. Your fighting style… it’s aggression. To Bruce, I think?”

Dick takes a second’s glance at her through his peripheral vision with a scoff. “You don’t know me, Fran,” 

“I know you well enough that _that_ is your stance to kill,” She approaches Dick’s table, and raises an eyebrow. “Who are you trying to kill off in your life, Dick?”

“Maybe it’s you,” He stands up and holds Frances’s arm, squeezing it. “Time to go back to Manhattan and _never_ come back here, got it?”

Frances doesn’t have the chance to retort and now, she’s being dragged out of the bullpen. She yanks her arm back. “I can perfectly walk on my own, thanks,” She says, and Dick doesn’t say anything. Both walk out of the building together in silence. Knowing now that it’s her time to move on, she keeps on walking while Dick stays behind, yet a hand holds her arm and she looks behind, seeing Dick, who looks distraught.

Frances splits her lips.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” A feminine voice interrupts their moment. Frances and Dick look, and it’s Detective Amy.

Dick looks at Frances and lets go of her arm. “I’m kind of in the middle of something,”

“So, what? You and your sidekick go bad?” Detective Amy asks. Frances is ready to punch her, to get into a catfight with this monstrosity and apathetic woman. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Your partner at Gotham PD,” Detective Amy says. Dick and Frances look at each other, knowing well enough that _they_ were each other’s sidekicks. “I mean, I’m no mind reader. It just seems kinda obvious,”

“I guess we had different ideas of how to do the job,” Dick looks at Frances, reassuring her that it wasn’t personal, yet it was. It’s about Bruce and the both of them, and why they had left the Batman himself. 

“How’s that? He on the take?” Detective Amy asks. “I heard most of Gotham is,”

“No, not him,” Dick shakes his head. “He was a hero to a lot of people. Including me. A stop-at-nothing guy who solved everything with his fists. I admired him at first, what he did… or was trying to do, but eventually, I had to walk away.” 

‘_So did I_,’ Thinks Frances, lowering her lashes thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“Because I was becoming too much like him,” Dick responds. 

“So, you’re not really, huh?”

“What?”

“An asshole,”

“Don’t tell. It’ll kill my rep,” Dick chuckles. 

“Yeah,” Detective Amy laughs. “Well, your secret’s safe with me,”

By then, Detective Amy walks away. Frances watches her walk away, and Dick does the same, towards the police department. She catches up with him, holding his arm. “That was one way to handle a sentimental moment,” She jokes.

“I thought you were leaving,” Dick sighs. “There’s nothing to do to get rid of you, huh?” He says, while his phone begins to ring. He pulls the device out and answers the call. “Grayson,” He responds, while he gestures for Frances to follow him. As they arrive at the stairs, Dick’s face changes. “Okay, thanks…”

“What is it?” Frances raises an eyebrow. 

Dick jogs up the stairs and Frances follows. As they return to the bullpen, Frances rushes to one of the interrogation rooms. The door is open and when they arrived, it’s empty. Dick doesn’t say anything for the next few minutes as they rush downstairs, where the garages are. As they see a police car, both their eyes notice an unconscious little girl at the back of the car. 

Dick quickly pulls out his phone. “Detective Grayson,” He gestures for Frances to run with him. “Can I get a ten-twenty on the car number three-one-zero?”


End file.
